Til Death Do Us Part (23 page)

“I want to trust you, to believe.”

“Lift your right hand and give it to me.”

Joanna looked at his hand and saw Benjamin Greymountain's silver-and-turquoise ring on his finger. J.T. noticed the way she stared at the ring. “This was meant to be a wedding band,” he told her. “Just like the one you're wearing. A symbol of a love to last a lifetime and beyond.” He slammed the palm of his hand against the rock wall of the shaft. “You can't hang on much longer. If your hands slip, you're going to fall. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”

“I know! I know!” Joanna panted, taking in short, choppy breaths. “Don't let me fall, don't let me die.”

“Either give me your trust and lift your hand up to me, or I'm going to risk coming over the edge far enough to grab you.”

“No! Don't! You could fall.”

“Yeah, I know.” He leaned over just a fraction farther.

“Don't do it,” she pleaded.

“Honey, haven't you figured it out? If you don't come out of this alive, there's no reason for me to live. Either we both get out of this damned mine together or we die down there together. It's your choice.”

J.T. held his breath. Joanna closed her eyes. She couldn't let J.T. risk his life any more than he already had. Her only chance to save him and maybe save herself, too, was to put her complete trust in him, to truly believe that he could save her.

She eased her right hand to the edge of the wooden beam, released it and shot her arm straight up. J.T. clasped her wrist, tugging her upward.

“That's it, honey.”

Letting go of the beam completely, she gave herself over to J.T.'s strength as he lifted her up and out of the shaft. With both of them on their knees, J.T. hauled her up against him, hugging her fiercely. Weeping, she clung to him. Tears stung his eyes.

He lifted her to her feet, then swept her up into his arms. “It's over,” he said. “And you're safe. Safe in my arms forever.”

She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. “He's dead, isn't he? Really dead?”

“Yeah, he's about as dead as a man can get.” Joseph shone the flashlight down into the shaft where Lenny Plott had fallen. “If you want to be sure, take a look,” he said. “But I warn you, it's not a pretty sight.”

“You don't have to look at him if you'd rather not,” J.T. told her.

“I want to see,” she said. “I need to see him dead.”

Held securely in J.T.'s strong arms, she peered over the edge of the shaft. The flashlight illuminated just a fraction of the deep shaft, but enough for Joanna to see
the lower half of Lenny Plott's lifeless body impaled on a sharp, jagged rock formation. She shuddered.

“My God!” Joanna gasped.

“Yeah.” Joseph nodded. “I'd say the Great Spirit had a hand in Plott's demise.”

“I'm getting you out of here,” J.T. said. “The sooner we put all of this behind us, the better.”

Joanna clung to J.T., rejoicing in their being alive, as he carried her out of the mine and into the light. Squinting against the glare of the late-afternoon sun, she stared at the Navajo men waiting in a straight line just outside the mine entrance.

J.T. carried her to the patrol car, opened the back door and slid inside, holding her in his arms. “After we get you thoroughly checked over at the clinic, we'll stay tonight on the reservation at my mother's house,” J.T. said. “I'm sure the FBI will want to question all of us. But tomorrow, I'm going to take you home, back to my ranch. And as soon as you and Elena can do whatever you women do to plan a wedding, we're getting married.”

“What?” Joanna gazed at him in disbelief.

He looked at her dirty, tear-streaked face and knew that no power on earth or in heaven would keep them apart. If Benjamin Greymountain had loved Annabelle as much as J.T. loved Joanna, the man would have found a way to keep her. Maybe their ancestors hadn't been able to fulfill the promise of their love, but J.T. intended to make sure he and Joanna reaped all the benefits from this once-in-a-lifetime love they shared.

“We're getting married as soon as possible,” he said.

“Is that what you call a proposal?”

“It's all you'll get from me.” With a shaky hand, he reached out and touched her beautiful face. “I'm not much of a romantic, honey, but you already know that. And I
won't be much of a bargain as a husband, but I have a feeling you'll whip me into shape without too much trouble. Heck, by the time we have kids, I'll probably be downright domesticated.”

“J. T. Blackwood, you are without a doubt the most irritating, infuriating—”

“Should I take that to mean you'll marry me?”

Joseph pecked on the window. J.T. motioned him away. Joseph opened the car door, stuck his head in, propped his booted foot inside and held up his cellular phone.

“I just talked to my sister, and I thought you'd like to know that Eddie's going to be fine. Or at least he will be until Kate takes a switch to his skinny little legs.”

“I doubt she'll have the heart to whip him,” Joanna said. “I know that if he were mine, I wouldn't.”

“Maybe this has taught him not to go off alone again.” J.T. motioned with the side of his head, indicating for Joseph to get lost. Removing his foot, Joseph stepped back and closed the door. Smiling, he turned around to wait for the helicopter carrying Dane Carmichael to land.

“I can think of only one thing I'd rather have from you than a marriage proposal.” Joanna kissed J.T.'s lips softly, her breath mingling with his.

“Name it and it's yours.”

“Don't agree too hastily,” she told him. “This might be something you can't give me.”

“You'll never know until you ask.”

“All right.” She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked directly at him. “More than anything, I'd like to have a declaration of love from you.”

“A what?”

“A declaration of—”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Shaking his head, he grunted. “During the past few hours I've said it over and over
again. ‘I love Joanna. I love her more than anything on earth. I love her so much it hurts. I never thought it possible to love anyone the way I love her. If she dies, I don't want to live.' I've said it to myself so many times, I guess I just forgot that I hadn't told you.”

“I think you just did.”

He lifted her right hand in his, interlocking their fingers. They both glanced down at their matching rings.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” J.T. looked at her with longing. “
Ayóí óosh'ni,
Joanna.” And this time he knew exactly what the words meant.
I love you.

Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he covered her mouth with his, claiming her, possessing her, telling her more eloquently than words ever could what was in his heart.

Joanna thought she heard the sound of drums, way off in the distance. Just a faint echo, as if the sound had traveled a span of decades to reach this moment in time.

Richmond, Virginia
June 1965

J
OANNA WIPED THE
tears from her eyes. Glancing down at the last entry in Annabelle Beaumont's diary, she traced her great-grandmother's handwriting with the tips of her fingers. There, beneath the final entry, Annabelle had neatly penned a stanza from her favorite Christina Rossetti poem.

Joanna closed the diary and placed it inside her desk, then, one by one, she turned out the lights in the living room of the new house she and J.T. had built shortly after their wedding seven years ago. Hesitating briefly in front of the fireplace, she looked up over the mantel at her most recently completed portrait—an oil painting of her three children, which she had hung between her prized portraits of her great-grandmother and J.T.'s great-grandfather.

These three strong, healthy offspring of hers and J.T.'s were the true legacy of love, one they knew in their hearts they shared with their ancestors.

Six-year-old John Thomas, with his black hair, green eyes and tall, sturdy body already taking on the long, lean proportions of his father's, was their firstborn. The twins, Annabelle and Benjamin, had just turned three last week, and still possessed chubby toddler forms. A riot of red curls circled their little brown faces, which possessed their father's strong Navajo features.

Joanna flipped off the last lamp, walked down the hallway and stopped by John Thomas's bedroom, peeping in on him. Her heart always caught in her throat whenever she looked at him. He was so beautiful, so absolutely perfect. She went on to the next door, stopped and walked into her twins' bedroom. In a few more years, they'd want separate rooms, but for now they were happy being together twenty-four hours a day.

Her precious little Annabelle and Benjamin. Born of a love that would live forever. She pulled up the blanket Annabelle had kicked to the foot of her bed. She'd been a
restless sleeper since infancy. Occasionally, Joanna would find her completely turned around in her bed, with her feet resting on the headboard.

Joanna tiptoed out of the twins' room and down the hallway. Opening the door to the master suite, she deliberately ignored J.T., who lay stretched out naked in the middle of the bed. She slipped off her silk robe, letting it puddle around her feet, then reached out and picked up J.T.'s tan Stetson from the dresser where he'd placed it. She set it on her head, turned around and put her hands on her hips.

J.T. sat up in bed, bracing his back against the headboard and crossing his arms behind his head.

“Howdy, partner.” Joanna swung her naked hips provocatively as she walked to the foot of the huge four-poster bed. “Want to play cowgirl and Indian?”

J.T. grinned. “I might, if I like the rules of the game.”

“The rules are very simple,” Joanna said, taking off the Stetson and holding it in her hand. “The first part of the game is ringtoss. If I can circle the object of my choice with this cowboy hat, I win a free ride.”

“And if you lose?”

“Then you get to tie me to a stake and set me on fire.” J.T. blew out a deep breath, lifted his hips up off the bed and laughed. “What the hell are you waiting for, woman? Toss that hat!”

Joanna sized him up, taking note of every inch of his masculine beauty laid out before her in naked splendor. She swung the Stetson around and around on her finger, lifted it and whirled it through the air. It landed right on target, sitting up straight over his arousal.

“Looks like you win, honey.” He held open his arms. “Come get your free ride.”

Joanna crawled onto the bed, lifted the Stetson, tossed
it to the floor and circled J.T. with her hand. He groaned deep in his throat.

“You'd think after seven years of riding, I'd have you broken in by now.” She licked him intimately.

J.T. grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her on top of him. Joanna giggled, then sighed when he placed her over his erection and eased himself into her body.

“Ride 'em, cowgirl,” he said.

And she did.

“S
HE'S OUTSIDE
.” Dane Carmichael stood in the doorway of Simon Roarke's office. “The lady brought her aunt with her.”

Roarke nodded to his boss, who had recently taken over the reins as head of Dundee Private Security. Raking his fingers through his thick, brown hair, Roarke shoved back his chair and stood. “I'll be damned if I don't feel like some Thoroughbred stallion about to be paraded around and sized up to see if I'd make a good studhorse.”

Dane chuckled. “I think the lady's pretty much made up her mind that you're the man she wants for the job. This little inspection is probably just a formality.”

“I haven't accepted her proposition. I'm not sure that I can. She's asking an awful lot for her million dollars.”

“I wouldn't do it.” Dane clamped his big hand down on Roarke's shoulder. “But then, we're very different men, with totally different agendas. I'm not eager to retire from this business, and I'm not paying the bills for an ex-wife's medical treatment.”

Roarke tensed at the mention of his former wife. Dane was one of the few people he'd ever told about Hope. He had always felt that his relationship with his ex-wife was nobody's business.

“I might as well get this over with.” He took a deep breath and tried to grin at Dane. Was he a fool even to
consider hiring himself out as a husband to a woman he'd never met?

“I'll tell the two Miss McNamaras to come in.”

“Hey,” Roarke called out.

Hesitating at the closed door, Dane glanced back at Roarke. “Yes?”

“What does she look like?”

“Does it really matter?” Dane asked.

“Yeah, it really matters. Good Lord, man, if I take her up on her offer, I'm going to be having sex with her for the next few months.”

Dane cleared his throat in an obvious effort not to laugh. “She's okay, I suppose, if you like the type.”

“And just what type would that be?”

“A petite redhead in a business suit, with an attitude so frosty that I could have chipped icicles off my fingers after our handshake.”

“Damn,” Roarke groaned. It might have made things a little easier if she was a luscious blond bombshell, the kind who could raise a man's temperature just by walking into the room.

“What did you expect—a hot-blooded temptress?” Dane asked. “Don't forget that she'd rather pay a man to marry her than seduce one with her charms.”

“This particular woman is paying for more than just a husband,” Roarke reminded him. “Ms. McNamara expects her money to buy her a husband, a bodyguard and a sperm donor.”

 

C
LEO
M
C
N
AMARA SHIFTED
uncomfortably in the straight-backed chair. She couldn't remember a time in her life when she'd been so nervous. But then, a lot was riding on her interview with Simon Roarke. If he accepted her offer, she could save McNamara Industries and the jobs
of several hundred employees. If he refused…? No, she wouldn't allow herself to think in negative terms. Cleo, more than most women, knew the power of money. After all, she had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. Few men could turn down a million dollars for less than a year's service.

“Cleo, dear, will you sit still?” Beatrice McNamara patted her niece's quivering hand. “You'll make yourself sick if you don't calm down.”

“I cannot believe I'm actually doing this,” Cleo said. “I'm about to hire myself a husband. If the matter wasn't so dead serious, it would be hilarious. I'm sure Daphne will laugh herself silly if she ever finds out.”

“Let Daphne laugh,” Beatrice said. “Let the whole family laugh. It doesn't matter. The only important thing is that by fulfilling the stipulations in Daddy's will, you'll be able to retain control of McNamara Industries. Besides, there's no reason for anyone to know this marriage isn't a love match.”

“If Uncle George hadn't been such an old-fashioned male chauvinist, he wouldn't have put me in this situation.”

“Now, dear, give credit where credit is due.” Beatrice straightened the soft neck bow on her silk blouse, her tiny fingers touching the material with delicate finesse. “Daddy might have been a bit old-fashioned, but if he'd been a true male chauvinist, he never would have allowed you to become CEO of McNamara Industries in the first place.”

“I know, Aunt Beatrice, but—”

“He simply didn't want to see you wind up an old maid like me.” Beatrice sighed dramatically. “Besides, when he made out his will, I'm sure he thought you'd marry Hugh.”

Cleo supposed it was reasonable for Uncle George to have thought she would marry Hugh Winfield in order to fulfill the stipulations of the will. But she had dated the man only to please Uncle George, who'd been determined—for years—to see her marry. She'd known Hugh most of her life and had always liked him, but she certainly wasn't in love with him. In all honesty, if he had dumped her—a week before Uncle George's death—for anyone other than her cousin Daphne, she would have been relieved.

Beatrice fidgeted with the braid trim on her lavender jacket. “I'm most eager to see what Mr. Roarke looks like, aren't you? His credentials are quite impressive, but one can't really judge a man until one meets him face-to-face.”

“I don't see that Mr. Roarke's physical appearance matters much one way or the other,” Cleo said, lying to herself as well as to her aunt. “He meets all the qualifications I need in a temporary mate. He's intelligent and healthy. And he's a seasoned bodyguard.”

“Well, say what you like, but I know that if I were planning on having—” Beatrice lowered her voice to a whisper “—
sex
…with a man, I'd want him to be at least passably good-looking.”

Before Cleo could think of a reply, the inner office door opened and Dane Carmichael invited them into Mr. Roarke's office.

Standing, Cleo stiffened her spine, and when Aunt Beatrice grabbed her hand, she squeezed tightly, trying to reassure them both. She stepped back, allowing her aunt to enter first, then followed her into the plainly decorated, modern office.

The man stood with his back to them. A very large, wide back. He wore a long-sleeved blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing dark, hairy forearms.
He was a big man, broad and thickly muscled beneath his clothes. He turned slowly. His blue eyes captured Cleo in their mesmerizing glare. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. She swallowed hard.

Beatrice McNamara gasped, then said ever so softly, “Oh, my, my.”

My, my, indeed, Cleo thought. Simon Roarke was, without a doubt, the most masculine man she had ever encountered. He stood six-three, a good foot taller than she. With his top shirt buttons open, his thick, dark chest hair was partially exposed. Despite telling herself not to stare, Cleo could not stop herself from inspecting the man.

There was a rugged, almost fierce beauty in his appearance. His face was not a pretty one by anyone's standards, but a strikingly handsome, extremely manly one. A five o'clock shadow darkened his jawline.

“Roarke, this is Ms. Cleo McNamara,” Dane said. “And her aunt, Miss Beatrice McNamara.”

Gathering up her courage, Cleo stepped forward. She tilted her chin defiantly, daring anyone to think that she wasn't strong, capable and fearless.

“Mr. Roarke.” She offered him her hand.

Simon glanced down at her small hand, tiny almost and quite delicate. Pale. Creamy. Soft. Unadorned. Well manicured, the nails painted with clear polish.

He accepted her greeting, his own big hand swallowing her small one when he grasped it. He felt a barely discernible tremor when their palms touched, but it was so slight he thought he might have imagined it. He realized he wanted this woman, who was trying so valiantly to appear tough, to show him some sign of weakness. But his gut instincts told him that Cleopatra McNamara seldom allowed anyone to see her vulnerable.

“Ms. McNamara. Won't you sit down?” He found him
self strangely reluctant to release her hand, so he guided her to the chair and assisted her in sitting.

Dane had been right about her. Cleo was a frosty little redhead in a neatly tailored black business suit. But where Dane had failed to notice Ms. McNamara's nicely rounded behind and the high thrust of a pair of not-too-inadequate breasts, Roarke
did
notice. Maybe if a man knew he was destined to bed a woman, he paid closer attention to her physical attributes.

Cleo was no ravishing beauty—that was true. But good Lord, there definitely was something about her that stirred Roarke's baser instincts. Maybe it was because she was so small, so thin, that he could easily break her in half with his bare hands. Or maybe it was the fact that she was trying so damn hard to show him how strong and tough she was. A lot of women in her situation would have used the “I'm so helpless and need a big strong man like you” approach. Whatever the cause, Roarke found himself interested in and oddly attracted to this woman who could soon be his for the taking.

Cleo stared up at him with fearless, moss-green eyes, her expression questioning him, his honesty, his sincerity. And for the briefest instant he felt as if she were warning him not to hurt her.

“We haven't any time to waste,” Beatrice said in her authoritarian, schoolteacher voice. “It's taken us nearly three weeks to find you, Mr. Roarke, and Cleo
must
be married within thirty-one days of Daddy's death.” Beatrice stood behind her niece's chair, her fingertips biting into the leather surface.

Roarke glanced at Beatrice McNamara, a softer, older version of her niece. He knew she was sixty-three, but would have guessed her a good ten years younger. Although her auburn hair was streaked with gray, she kept
it cut stylishly short, and her petite body was still youthfully slender.

“I understand the urgency.” Roarke spoke directly to Beatrice, then turned his attention to Cleo. “You must be desperate to retain control of your uncle's little fertilizer plant if you're willing to marry a man you don't know and have him father your child.”

What sort of woman must she be, Roarke wondered, to pay such a high price for the stewardship of a small chemical plant in a one-horse Alabama town? If she didn't marry within a month of her uncle's death and become pregnant within a year, she wouldn't lose her inheritance, just control of the company. In fact, by selling the business, as the other family members wanted to do, she'd be a far richer woman than if she kept the company and lived off the quarterly dividends.

“If I don't fulfill the stipulations of Uncle George's will by marrying and getting pregnant, then McNamara Industries will be sold. And the company that wants to buy it plans to downsize drastically. That will mean hundreds of River Bend residents will lose their jobs. Our ‘little' fertilizer plant is the major employer in the county, Mr. Roarke.”

“I see.” Roarke scanned Cleo's face for any sign of deception and found none. So Cleo McNamara was a do-gooder. A wealthy businesswoman who actually gave a damn about her employees.

Beatrice cleared her throat. “You understand that your background in the Green Berets and here at the Dundee agency is what tipped the scales in your favor as our choice for a husband. Cleo needs a full-time bodyguard.”

“I'm well aware of Ms. McNamara's reasons for selecting me over the other candidates.” Roarke glared at Dane
Carmichael, who stood by the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and a smirky grin on his face.

“We're quite certain that someone in the family is trying to kill Cleo,” Beatrice explained. “Two days after Daddy's funeral, someone tried to shoot her. And with one of Daddy's rifles, too! The sheriff checked every weapon in Daddy's collection immediately after the shooting and discovered one of the rifles had been fired recently. The bullet they found in the wall behind where Cleo had been standing was a match.”

“But according to the report you sent me, there were no fingerprints, other than your father's, found on the rifle.”

“That's right.” Beatrice nodded.

“And the authorities don't have a clue as to who fired that shot?” Roarke posed his question to Cleo.

“Not a clue,” she said. “But it had to have been either a family member or someone they'd hired. Only Aunt Beatrice and I want to keep McNamara Industries a family-run business. The rest of the family want to sell it.”

“Is saving your uncle's company worth risking your life?” Roarke fervently wished he didn't find Ms. McNamara to be so damned noble. There was certainly something irresistibly appealing about a strong, intelligent, noble woman.

He realized that he'd never met anyone quite like her, and it was at that very moment he decided to take Cleo McNamara up on her offer of marriage. Even though he'd be doing it for the money, perhaps by making it possible for her to fulfill the stipulations of her uncle's will, he, too, would be doing something just a little noble.

“Yes. Saving McNamara Industries is worth any price I have to pay.” Balling her hands into tight little fists in her lap, she stared up at Roarke. “Do we have a deal? As Aunt Beatrice pointed out, I don't have any time to waste.”

“Has your lawyer drawn up all the documents?”

“Yes. I have them with me. In my briefcase.”

“Then leave them and I'll read over them tonight. Come back tomorrow morning and, if you haven't changed your mind, we'll sign the papers.”

“I won't change my mind,” Cleo assured him. “Once we've finalized our deal, I'll want you to return to Alabama with me and we'll be married immediately.”

Cleo stood and offered her hand to Roarke. Reluctantly, he accepted, once again holding on to her longer than necessary.

“I want one thing understood up front,” Roarke told her, his thumb caressing her knuckles. “I'll marry you, father your child and protect you while we try to discover who wants to kill you. But I won't be around once the child is born. That's the only way I'll agree to this deal.”